


Mycroft - Confessions, Truth, and Lies

by AlessNox



Series: Mycroft's Mind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, M/M, POV First Person, Rivalry, Romantic Friendship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a steward of the British Nation is hard work, but not, it seems, as hard as taking care of his wild-child younger brother Sherlock. When his loner brother suddenly takes a flatmate, Mycroft wonders what is happening, and who is this Dr. John H. Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft - Confessions, Truth, and Lies

Mycroft Confessions, Truth, and Lies

**A. Confessions**

It is not the custom of the Holmes men to confess their feelings to anyone. Confessions can be revealed. Secrets exposed to one's own detriment. I, of all people, know how such information can be used to gain an advantage over another. I have used it myself. I do not do this because I want to, but because I am compelled to by Her Majesty. And because anything that lowers my efficiency may put the Nation at risk.

The mind is pure and elegant, whereas emotions...they are messy, inefficient things. I pride myself on never letting my emotions influence my decisions or my actions, and this has not been a problem for me until now. More and more I find myself distracted. It is a weakness. For someone in my position, you might even call it a 'sin'.

I am assured that you have been sworn to secrecy. Even so, I wish to remind you that this conversation has been given the highest Top Secret rating, and that to reveal anything that I say to you will result in a charge of treason. A charge that can still, even in our modern age, result in life imprisonment. That being said, let us begin.

My brother, Sherlock Holmes, is dead. I caused his death. Indirectly it may have been, and it was not my intention, but it was my fault. It was the result of a horrible miscalculation on my part. A mistake that set in motion a cascade of failures. A tragedy that I found myself unable to stop. And the fall of one Holmes precipitates the fall of another.

In order to understand my part in this story, you must first understand what it is that I do. I am the Hub of the British Government. It is a job that I have created myself. My talents are ...considerable, but for the most part they are invisible. There are buildings in this very city filled with banks of computers where analysts input fact after fact to try to create simulations of the world so that they can predict what might happen. I can do this offhand. Given sufficient data. Correct data. I can predict the actions of rival governments. Pinpoint areas of conflict. Decode complicated strategies. All of the ministries report to me. I store this data in my City of the Mind. Row upon row of cubbyholes holding the minutest of details which wait until I need them. You see, computers may crunch numbers, but they have no intuition. The most powerful computer cannot match the insights that can be gained by the human mind.

This story began over two years ago when I received an file marked personal.

Surveillance report: Sherlock Holmes Status: Grade four – active

**Alert - Change of address**

**Official registry – Sherlock Holmes old address:**  
 **221C Baker street London NW1 6XE England.**

**New address:**  
 **221B Baker Street London NW1 6XE England.**

"Hardly a move." I laughed, "He hasn't even left the building." I was about to turn to the next page, when I noticed the rest of the entry.

**221B Baker streets Residents:**

**Mr. Sherlock Holmes**

**Dr. John H. Watson**

"Dr. John H. Watson? Who?" I wondered "Sherlock has a flatmate?"

Sherlock's last two flatmates had been totally unsuitable. Neither one could have past the simplest security screening. Luckily they also could not long last in the company of my eccentric brother. No one could, not even me. I once offered him living space here in our ancestral home. I cannot tell you how relieved I felt when he rudely turned me down.

Well, I immediately began to investigate this Dr. John H. Watson. I searched Sherlock's list of known associates. The list is, as you may guess, incredibly small. Many of these persons have...arrangements with me to provide information about his actions and whereabouts. There was no Dr. Watson on the list.

I recognized Dr. Watson's previous address. It was military housing. A search of the military database brought up five Dr. John Watson's in the London area. Three were deceased. One Dr. John C. Watson was in the navy. The other, a Dr. John H. Watson, was formerly a captain in her majesty's army, retired with an honorable discharge. I called my secretary Phillipa, and I had all of the reports on Dr. Watson on my desk within the hour.

I flipped through the files rapidly. "Trained at Barts, graduated with distinction, very nice. Joined her majesty's army, wounded in action in Afghanistan, medical discharge, psychiatric counseling. Interesting. Why would Sherlock choose such a man as a flatmate? God knows he has no great love of government service or those who choose it. This man seems to be a straight arrow. A Queen's man. The sort of man that I would have chosen to watch over Sherlock, and he would have tossed him out on his ear. A soldier no less. What could have possibly convinced Sherlock to choose a soldier as a flatmate?"

Flipping through the military file again. I noticed that his discharge papers listed the return of all supplies including a gun. However, the gun returned had a different serial number than the one issued.

"How had no one noticed that?"

His psychiatric record was most interesting. The hand was firm and quick, a woman's. The latest record, dated the previous day, read:

He has trust issues. Doesn't seem the type to make friends easily.

"So he has at least one thing in common with Sherlock."

Will not open up about his experiences in the war. Medical examination shows that he should not feel pain in his leg, but he has a psychosomatic limp brought on by the trauma of his military experience. Diagnosis PTSD.

"Curiouser and curiouser."

Have recommended he start a blog to record his experiences, but he resists. He isolates himself, and represses his anger. For these reasons I have put him on watch. Unless he learns to open up and trust someone, he could turn on others, or even commit suicide. Recommend continued counseling until further notice.

"Interesting. So my brother has chosen to move in with an armed, homicidal, repressed, angry military doctor. How typical."

I stabbed the intercom.  
"Phillipa, get me a couple of cars. I want to have a private meeting. The warehouse should do. And tell Agnes that I need her."

**B. Introductions**

Power is the only game worth playing.

People are either players or non-players. Most people are non-players and they don't matter much except in how they can be used to manipulate the players. Case in point, Irene Adler. She was a non-player but she was used by Moriarty to manipulate those in power. A good player knows his weaknesses and learns to watch them. I have my own weaknesses. An appreciation of fine dining being one. My little brother, Sherlock, being another.

When I heard that Sherlock had a new flatmate, it was vital that I assess him. He could be a spy sent to manipulate me through my brother. He could be a tool that I could use. Either way, I would be negligent indeed if I ignored this threat.

That was why on an evening when I should have been relaxing and having a brandy at the Diogenes club, I found myself sitting in my car parked in an abandoned warehouse looking at CCTV camera data of a crime scene in Brixton.

It was the cane that first alerted me that I had spotted Dr. Watson. He was standing beside a police car. A woman was talking to him. Sally Donovan, I think that she was called. She was probably warning John to stay away from Sherlock. Good advice.

So, not just a flatmate. This man was someone whom Sherlock brought along on cases. As a child, Sherlock would never show a puzzle book to anyone until he had solved the whole thing. He had to solve them first himself, and if I gave him the smallest amount of help he would bawl and cry and throw the book across the room, so annoying. That's why I found this so odd.

Dr. Watson started to walk away, possibly looking for a taxi, so I looked up the phone number of the booth next to him and dialed. He walked past without even noticing. I rang one phone and then the other, but he ignored them. Eventually he noticed, entering a red phone booth and picking up the receiver.

"Hello" he said.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left, do you see it?" I said.

"Who's this." Watson replied. "Who's speaking."

"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?"

Watson looked up at the camera. "Yeah I see it."

"Watch." I said pushing a control and making it turn away. Even with the poor resolution of the cameras, I could see the furrowing of his brows. The way he looked anxiously from side to side. I continued. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

Watson looked up.

"And finally at the top of the building on your right."

"How are you doing this?" Watson said nervously.

"Get into the car, Dr Watson." I told him.

I had meant to be reassuring. I wanted him to know that our meeting would be held in the strictest of confidence, but I could see from his expression that this is not the way that he took it. So I changed tack.

"I would make some sort of threat, but I am sure your situation is quite clear to you." I disconnected the line.

I had a chair brought out, and I chose the correct distance to stand from it. Close enough to see his facial expressions clearly, yet far enough so that he could not attack me before I could defend myself using the blade that I have concealed in my umbrella. Cliché, I know, but useful.

I had Agnes in the car with him to scan him for weapons and give me her assessment. I have found that the presence of a beautiful woman relaxes a man, well, a heterosexual man. I texted Agnes.

[What is he doing?]

[He's chatting me up. I told him my name is Anthea.]

[Anthea? epithet of Hera, queen of the Gods.]

[Yes. We're almost there]

I must admit that I was a bit anxious. Sherlock has many … endearing qualities, but patience is not one of them. Stupid people bore him as they do me. The fact that Sherlock valued this man highly enough to offer him half of his new flat, was, frankly, surprising. So I took my most debonair pose and waited.

The car pulled up, and Dr. Watson got out. He limped toward me. His form was hidden at first by the glare of the car's headlights. I greeted him cordially. "Have a seat, John."

"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that but ... you could just phone me, on my phone." Dr. Watson began.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you, sit down."

"I don't want to sit down." He said angrily.

I knew then that the psychiatrist was right about the anger, the repression, and the psychosomatic limp. He looked as if he wanted to reach out and strangle me. It was exhilarating. "You don't seem very afraid." I said.

"You don't seem very frightening."

He was so reckless, I laughed. This was the type of man John Watson was. The type who ran toward danger. "Yes," I said, "The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity do you think?" Then I got straight to the point. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him ...yesterday."

Yesterday? Was this another one of Sherlock's stunts, or was there actually something special about this man? "Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John glared at me. The inside brows near his nose furrowed in an expression of controlled annoyance. I once saw a similar expression on the face of a tiger before it brought down an elephant. "Who are you?" he asked.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

There was that word again, friend. "You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?"

John pursed his lips. Annoyed again.

"I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." I said honestly.

" And what is that?" He returned quickly, anger on the tip of his tongue though he kept his voice calm and low.

"An enemy," I replied.

"An enemy?" He said.

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

John turned his face aside and then looked me in the eye saying, "Well thank God you're above all that."

I wanted to laugh, but I could not, so I hid it in a frown. Just then John received a text. Could it be that Sherlock had found us already? No. It was a coincidence. John looked down at his phone.

"I hope I'm not distracting you." I said irritated. I must say that I am unaccustomed to having someone put texting before a conversation with me.

"Not distracting me at all." He said still glancing at his phone.

Now I am not, for the most part, a vain man. Our mother did insist on a certain meticulousness about our dress. But I am not the sort of person who puts himself forward in a social situation. Even so, I do expect that when I am talking to someone, especially when I am threatening someone, that they will give me their full attention. I asked him, "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

John Watson glared past me saying, "I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be." I said.

"It really couldn't" He replied insolently.

I must say that it was difficult to keep a smile off of my face. This man, a non-player, in a situation where he had no power. Despite the cameras, despite the cars, he was facing me down! I wanted to applaud him, "Bravo!" but now was time for the bribe.

I reached into my pocket for my notepad. "If you do move into, two hundred and twenty one B Baker street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ...uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" John countered.

I decided to tell him the truth, " I worry about him, constantly."

"That's nice of you." John said sarcastically.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a...difficult relationship."

Then another text interrupted our discussion. I was beginning to feel that I was losing control. John tightened his lips and spat out the word. "No!"

"But I haven't mentioned a figure?"

"Don't bother." he responded.

"You're very loyal very quickly." I said disbelieving.

"No, I'm not, I'm just not interested." John said holding his anger in check.

It seemed time for another show of power. "Trust issues...it says here."

John swallowed narrowing his eyes. Finally, his cool facade was shattered, "What's that?" he asked.

I pretended to read as I questioned him, "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." I read.

The anger rose again, "Are we done?"

Dr. Watson looked even more dangerous than before. "You tell me."

John Watson tilted his head the same way that a cobra does before it strikes, then he turned to walk away.

I felt... something when he was leaving. Panic is the closest word to it. I couldn't let him go like that. I needed more time. I needed ... I could tell that he was the kind of man who couldn't leave an question unanswered.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him." I said to his back. "But I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

As I hoped, he slowed his step and turned around. "My what?" he asked.

"Show me."

Resisting all the way, John held up his hand. I walked toward him, slowly.

I suppose that this was the first time that I noticed my attraction to Dr. John Watson. I had already gotten all of the information that I needed from him. I had noticed the steadiness of his hand from across the room. There was no logical reason for me to touch him except that I wanted to.

I reached out. "Don't" John said pulling away. I gave him a knowing stare, and he let me touch him.

I placed John's hand between the two of mine. They were compact hands, rough, manly, yet uncallused, the hands of a learned man, a doctor. There were delicate hairs on the back of his fingers. Little dimples formed on his skin as he stretched them trying, ever so subtly to avoid contact. I pushed his fingers against my palm. Not because it proved anything, but because I wanted to touch him, to feel him, to verify to myself that men such as John Watson existed.

"Remarkable." I said.

John pulled his hand away. "What is?"

I turned to hide my disappointment. I said, "Most people blunder 'round this city and all they see are streets or shops or cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already. Haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" John said. For a moment he seemed almost open.

I said. "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." John nodded, "Your therapist thinks that it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

"Who the hell are you?" He yelled before clamping down on his anger again. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her." I said, "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson...you miss it."

"Welcome back." I whispered before turning and walking away. John stood at attention waiting for me to leave. The trigger finger of his left hand extended as if he wished he held a gun.

"Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson." I said, and I heard another of those annoying text beeps. I knew then that it was definitely Sherlock texting him. Sherlock was incredibly impatient.

As I climbed into my car, I tried to get a handle on the interview but I could not. My own feelings were getting in the way. I was happy, unusually so. I may even have spun my umbrella. I had just met a man that could not be bought?

I was astonished. I felt like Diogenes of Sinope having just met an honest man. I am a founding member of the Diogenes club after all. We are, for the most part, a cynical bunch and yet...

I understood, finally, why Sherlock would accept this man as a flatmate. He was loyal, dangerous to attack, and now he was Sherlock's man through and through. But I knew that I would not rest until he became MY man. They always did in the end.  


**C. Relations**

Sherlock and I do not always get along. Although we come from the same background, there are many philosophical points on which we disagree. One is the treatment of the body. Sherlock believes that you can ignore the body completely. He tries to live on thought alone. Now I am a realist. I know that we cannot completely ignore the needs of the body. Each of us must eat and excrete, and even occasionally indulge in other pleasures for our continued health and happiness.

Another point that we disagree on is the use of the mind. It is our responsibility to use our mind to the fullest. That is why it aggravates me no end that Sherlock refuses to go into public service. He has a very interesting and insightful mind. He may not think it, but I do appreciate his skills, I simply do not like the way that he wastes his talents on solving problems that are unimportant in the greater scheme of things.

That is why it was with irritation as well as concern that I left my modest fare, (A steak and salad with a roll and sliced carrots,) because Sherlock had almost been killed once again.

Agnes and I sped toward the crime scene to see Sherlock. We didn't park too close to the police cars. It is best to avoid publicity in these cases. I could see Sherlock sitting in the back of an ambulance. He rose and walked over to John Watson. They talked. I called up the police report that had just been uploaded.

It read: Cab driver, suspected murderer, found dead from a gunshot wound. The bullet came through the window from another part of the same building. The distance was...

Only a crack shot could have done it! I ran through the list of gunmen at large in my head. None of them were known to be in this area. The wound description said hand gun. Who had the skill to use a hand gun accurately at that distance?

Then I remembered the file on Doctor John Watson. It mentioned that he had competed in the Army Operational Shooting Competition. Only one thousand from the combined armed forces of Britain and Jamaica were allowed enter the competition. Only the best, and Dr. Watson was one of them. John Watson certainly did make loyalties quickly.

Putting down the report, I turned in my seat to look at Sherlock, and saw something shocking. Sherlock was laughing. Laughing as he hadn't done since he was a child.

I'm not saying that Sherlock had a sour disposition. He did not. He was often excited, occasionally manic, and he could act very self-satisfied when he had solved a difficult case, but he was laughing and smiling as he walked with John Watson. It was extraordinary.

I mentally measured the distance between them. Sherlock rarely stands within two yards of anyone if he could help it. I usually stand one yard and a half away from him. But as these two approached the car smiling together, they were not only within one yard of each other. Their shoulder's could almost be touching.

It was clear to me that Sherlock was in love!

This was a serious matter indeed. Sherlock was totally enraptured with a dangerously unstable doctor who had already killed a man to save him. I could see from their expressions that this was no passing fancy. I might as well start looking at china patterns.

I left the car to talk to them. Sherlock was his irritating self. John Watson had somehow mistaken me for a criminal mastermind.

"Close enough." Sherlock said

I don't understand how it happens, but when we are together, Sherlock acts as if he is ten years old. He insulted me on my weight even though I am the thinnest I have been in years, and he accused me of...

Pardon me, I don't mean to complain. it's just that Sherlock always affects me that way. I could tell that he was perfectly fine by how irritating he was, so I wasn't worried about him. It was the Doctor that I wondered about.

I watched him. In Sherlock's presence, John Watson wasn't hostile. He showed concern and curiosity. He even tried to proposition Agnes. I thought, 'he could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever.' Sherlock and John walked off the best of pals even though they had known each other for less than two days.

If I had to put a name to how I felt, I suppose the most accurate word would be...jealous. I felt jealous. I wanted someone like that for myself. Someone who would kill to protect me, not because of my importance to the British government, or because he was paid to do so, but simply because he liked me as a person.

I don't suppose that someone such as yourself could truly understand the significance of this development. For most people friendships are part of their childhood. But we had been taught to view attachments with suspicion. Truth be told, Sherlock Holmes had never had a friend, and neither had I.  


**D. Chess**

In chess, one has to be willing to sacrifice pieces. Sherlock was always a little too fond of his knight.

Once you reveal such a fondness, it makes one subject to strategy. All I had to do is threaten his knight, to get a free move because I knew that he would waste a turn to save it. You see, it is a disadvantage to show preference. It is a disadvantage to care too much for any one piece. I've tried to teach Sherlock this lesson, but he never learns. Caring is something that should only be done abstractly, such as caring that the greatest number of British citizens should have the best quality of life imaginable. General, not specific you see?

Matters of state concerned me so I did not think of Sherlock for some time, but when an alert arrived on my desk saying that a gas explosion had damaged Sherlock's flat on the same day that the problem of the Bruce-Partington plans arrived, I decided that I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. The next morning, I went to pay a visit to my brother Sherlock.

The street was strewn with rubble. Sherlock's apartment was as well. Although the window had been covered, there was a decided chill in the air. Sherlock was playing his violin. He had a fondness for Beethoven. I was never one for the romantics. He stopped when he heard me on the stairs. I walked across the glass and rubble strewn floor. My feet crunching it to powder. A glittering dust that left a residue on my carpet when I finally did get to work an hour later.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He asked.

"Can't I can show concern for my own dear brother when he has been in an accident?"

"Frankly. No." Sherlock snapped.

"May I at least sit down?" I asked and Sherlock gestured grandly with his bow.

Glancing around the room I could see that despite the rubble from the explosion, the floor was relatively neat. A sign that Sherlock was not yet on a case. The bright yellow happy face on the wall riddled with bullets showed that he had not had a case for some time. I smiled. Sherlock always got destructive when he was bored.

"As it so happens, I do have a case that I need looking into."

"There it is." He said plucking the strings flat on purpose.

"It is of national significance." I added.

"I'm not interested." Sherlock said pulling his bow across in a sustained G that rattled my tooth.

Sherlock knew how much the violin irritated me. At least the way that Sherlock could play it. As a child Sherlock attempted to make sounds on his violin that would burst ear drums and break glass. Now, it appeared, he had finally perfected the skill.

Just then, there was a footstep on the stair, and Sherlock glanced aside as his name was called.

Ah yes, John Watson, where had he been?

The look of concern on his face was heart-warmingly beautiful. The faint smell of perfume and cinnamon air freshener showed that he had just been at the house of a woman, although he had not slept with her. The creases on his skin near his neck revealed that he had slept in his clothes. The discomfort of his step and the pattern of folds on his pants showed that it was a large-ish couch, perhaps leather.

John's presence alone seemed to defuse some of the tension in the room. After a brief exchange, Sherlock said, "I can't." in a voice that sounded almost as if he regretted it.

"Can't?" I said echoing his lie.

Sherlock then went on to insult my weight, again. I decided to gently probe John about their relationship.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became...pals." I said absentmindedly twisting my umbrella. "What's he like to live with? Hellish I'd imagine."

"I'm never bored." John replied.

Sherlock was being intransigent simply because he wanted to oppose me. He was annoying as only a little brother could be. He obviously didn't know the meaning of the words 'national significance.' Luckily John did.

When Sherlock refused, I gave the file to John. When John challenged me saying, "you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Sherlock actually laughed. Sherlock was very closely attuned to John. He reacted to John's every word and gesture. To paraphrase Shakespeare Sherlock lived almost by his looks.

It was interesting this...relationship of Sherlock's. It was indeed the closest relationship that he had ever had. It intrigued me. I knew now that Sherlock would take the case because John would, for John could do nothing without Sherlock watching him.

When I shook John's hand, it was firm and rough like before. But this was a totally different feeling. The last time that I had held his hand, he was eager to get away from me, and although now he was only being polite, I could feel the warmth in his grip. I held his hand a second longer than was absolutely necessary. Then I leaned forward and told him, "See you very soon."

I must say that I was anticipating seeing him again, even as I walked from the room. Sherlock scratched shrill notes on the violin just to irritate me. I swear he knows the frequency to vibrate teeth. But as I left, I could still feel the pressure of John's handshake. In my business, I shake many hands, but political hand shakes don't have the warmth of social ones. I could still feel John's warmth.

That was the day of my root-canal operation, an annoyingly tedious affair. I amused myself by texting Sherlock, and when he did not answer, John.

It was an odd thing this relationship of Sherlock's. I understood it of course. Sherlock was like a rudderless ship drifting around aimlessly looking for interesting things to occupy his mind. He had found an anchor in John. No, a port is probably the better analogy. John was a port that he could go back to.

John honestly cared for Sherlock. He did not seem to be as dangerous or lost as he had been before. Sherlock had given him a purpose. Someone to care for. Someone to defend. I wondered for a moment if there was anything ...physical going on between them.

"Physical, with Sherlock. That would be impossible." I chuckled.

Besides John Watson was clearly heterosexual. And yet, there was still something there...something special between them.

As I sat in the dentist's chair, I found myself replaying the visit in my head. Sherlock changed the moment John had come into the room. It was if John exuded calm. For someone like Sherlock who was always active, always thinking, John's stalwart presence was soothing. It was soothing simply to watch him. The way he walked, stocky, determined, strong. The concern in his voice when he feared that Sherlock might be hurt. The look on his face. The wrinkles around his nose so different in concern than they had been in anger. The way he stood open-mouthed as he looked at the aftermath of the explosion. Yes, I could understand Sherlock's fascination with Dr. John Watson. I felt a bit of it myself.

A hand on my shoulder told me that they were done with my teeth. It had seemed only moments ago they had started. Where had my mind been?

I went to work, and as I returned from the records room, Philipa told me that Dr. John Watson was waiting in my office. I took a moment to wipe my hands. For some reason they were damp.

"John how nice," I said as I entered the room, "I was hoping it wouldn't be long."

John was wearing an ugly brown suit. It was probably the only suit he owned. His striped tie was slightly askew. I had to resist the urge to straighten it. I was arranging my files so I only 'heard' John shifting nervously in his seat as he lied about Sherlock's interest in the case.

" _How sweet of him to try to make me think better of my brother._ "

I knew that Sherlock was off doing some trivial thing just to spite me. That was Sherlock's way, but John lied for him anyway. It was cute. It was adorable.

I found that I couldn't keep the smile off of my face as I turned to look at him. You see, there were so many people who had sat in that chair: ministers, spies, beautiful women, and yet none of them had ever been as charming as Dr. John Watson was at that moment, lying about how interested Sherlock was in the case.

My tooth still hurt, but I found myself leaning casually against my desk as I talked to him. I rarely ever do that. I am not a 'casual' man. I did it because it seemed the friendlier thing to do, and because it allowed me to be closer to John. I found myself talking slowly as I explained everything to him. Everything about this visit was atypical.

Normally, when someone needs to be briefed, I leave something at the front desk. I could have easily given John a file and had him read it securely in the outer office. Why was I wasting time with John that I should be spending on finding ways to manipulate the Korean elections? Why was I bouncing on the edge of my desk explaining this case when I should be asking for an icepack for my tooth? The truth was that John himself was an anesthetic. Talking about something simple. Having John listen to me. It was... I don't know the word for such an emotion. It's not soothing as I thought before. He was stimulating. I found that I was stimulated as I watched him in a way that I had not been for a long time. I think that the word for what I was feeling was ...pleasure.

Watching John smile. A man who was so laughably bad at lying, it was a joy. And it was such a change from our previous meeting in the warehouse. Yes, I felt pleasure talking with him, and so few things give me pleasure in this day and age. Devising a plan to further the governments aims. Discovering and solving a mystery. Making a successful play in the game. A good meal. These things give me pleasure. Women also, but they are a tainted pleasure because one can never trust them.

But having a simple conversation with John was a rare pleasure. I found myself drawing out the explanation to make him stay longer. It made me feel decadent. Every word I said. Every fact that fell from my lips into John's ears was decadent because it was already in black and white in the file.

I watched how John unconsciously licked his lower lip when he was nervous. The way he narrowed his brows in concern for me when the pain in my tooth made me wince. To think, he showed concern for me. I wanted to see that smile again, so I asked about Sherlock.

"How is he getting on?" I asked.

John immediately looked nervous. He looked down and said, "He's fine and it is going very well. He is completely focused on it." John looks so sweet when he lies.

For a brief moment, I realized my peril. John was a piece like Sherlock's knight. I should not become fond of him. I ended the interview planning to go on to more serious matters. As he rose, I walked forward and shook his hand.

His touch was unusually sensual. It was as if every nerve in my body was resonating with the feel of his skin on mine. His handshake was strong and firm. Holding John's fingers against my own, I tried to memorize the shape of them so that I could remember when he had gone the warmth of human contact without guile.

I took a step closer to him, and he looked up at me. His lips pursed in an expression of curiosity. His hair glowed in the dim lamplight. The spicy, musky scent of his aftershave was slightly intoxicating. I felt dizzy. Then John pulled his hand away from mine, and left the office. The pain in my tooth returned full force.

I went to my chair and sat down as I decided what to do about Dr. John Watson. He was indeed dangerous. Dangerous in his amiability. Dangerous in his compassionate nature. Sherlock was already smitten with him. I was in danger of becoming so.

A player should not become too fond of his pieces. Something would have to be done about Dr. John Watson before another player discovered my weakness and exploited it.  


**E. Twists and Turns**

At the highest levels of the game, there are very few players. I play for the British Nation. There are others who play for different nations or corporations, and some who seek power for themselves. There are, however, some players who serve only chaos. One such player was James Moriarty.

In every battle, there are rules of engagement. One rule that is sacrosanct among us is that you attack the entity not the individual. This is why great leaders can all sit down at the same table without fear even when they are planning each other's destruction.

So it was with surprise that I heard of Moriarty's attack on my brother. He had kidnapped John Watson and covered him with explosives. Sherlock had recovered the Bruce-Partington plans and given them to him, but he had thrown them away. The message was crystal clear. This was a direct attack against me. My plans to dispose of John Watson fell by the wayside. He had already been marked, and now he was in play, as was my brother.

I was at this time deep in the planning of the Coventry anti-terrorist action which was of my own devising. I was informed that some information about Bond Air had been leaked and it was vital that we secure that information as soon as possible. When Her Majesty's delicate problem with Irene Adler was presented to me, I thought that it might be time for me to use Sherlock and John Watson.

Please do not think that I was being callous or negligent in using my brother to solve this problem. The fact that both Sherlock and John were in play meant that they could not avoid this fight. It was my role to direct them toward the correct opponent. It seemed to me that Sherlock was the right one to fight Irene Adler. She was much more experienced than he in sexual matters, but then again who isn't.

I had them brought to Buckingham Palace. Something that I thought that even my brother would appreciate, but I was wrong. Not only had he not dressed appropriately, he had not dressed at all. When I saw them in a waiting room they were laughing like school boys. I had to reprimand them. "Just once, can you behave like grown ups?" I asked.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. So I wouldn't hold out too much hope." John said.

He was clever, yes, but this was not the time for levity. When I tried to describe the case to Sherlock, he refused me. "I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much." he said. So I stomped on his sheet as he walked away and revealed another end.

Things could have gotten much worse had John not been there. He calmed us down. There is something about him. His gentle voice has a sort of authority, like Mummy's, although he sounds nothing like her.

When Sherlock finally came to his senses and dressed, we sat down to have a civilized cup of tea.

"I'll be mother." I said pouring.

"And there is our whole childhood in a nutshell." Sherlock said annoyingly.

I presented the problem and Sherlock was obstinate and arrogant. He underestimated Irene Adler. He retrieved the item, but was unable to maintain custody of it. Sherlock failed in his attempt. Hardly surprising but disappointing nonetheless.

The next morning I went to 221B to check on him and hear of the disappointment from the horse's mouth. John was eating breakfast. He was wearing a blue shirt with thin horizontal stripes. I smiled. When I expressed my dismay at Ms Adler's victory, Sherlock said that I should 'treat her like royalty.' and John added, 'But not the way that she treats royalty.' Humorous. John was very pleasant to be around. I found myself lingering in the apartment much longer than I needed to.

Just then, a strange moan emerged from Sherlock's phone showing me that Irene Adler had already sunk her teeth into him. She was a dangerous opponent, but one look at John told me that she would not succeed.

There was something about their relationship. They were two halves of the same coin. No wonder John Watson couldn't keep a woman. Sherlock and he were too close. No one could get between them. I trusted that John's presence would keep Irene Adler at bay.

But Bond Air was taking up so much of my thoughts, that I had very little time to spend on Irene Adler. As for my brother Sherlock, I found that I had come to rely on John to tell me about him. It was then that we first started meeting each other in private.

The first time, I had my car bring him to a restaurant where I was having a meal. He looked irritated as he was seated. He always resented what he called my 'power complex'. Really, it is only practicality. It is much easier to send someone for him, than it is for me to deviate from my busy schedule.

"Why am I here?" He asked

"You are here so that we can talk about Sherlock." I said.

"Why?"

"I worry about him." I replied.

"What do you want from me?" John asked.

"Only what is best for Sherlock. Although he excels in many areas, Sherlock is subject to extreme bouts of depression. It has, in the past, been a problem. Since your association, these fits have been less often and less severe. You are a good influence on my brother Dr. Watson."

"Thank you."

"Would you care to eat. Order anything that you like."

"No thank you, I just want to know what you want."

"How do you think Sherlock feels about Irene Adler?" I asked.

"How he feels about her, I don't know? In pain? She did hit him pretty hard and I don't mean that figuratively."

"I'm afraid that these experiences might cause him to go back to his habit of experimenting with drugs. You are a doctor. You understand that Sherlock is emotionally fragile."

"He seems fine now."

"Yes, and I would like him to remain so. To this end, I would like it if you would occasionally give me your opinion of his mental state. If you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind. I suppose it's okay for brothers to be concerned about each other."

"Thank you Dr. Watson. Is there anything that I can do for you in return?"

"A steak might be good. I am feeling a little peckish."

"Of course, Waiter!"

At Christmas when we thought that Irene Adler was dead, I tried to comfort my brother. To tell him about the game that we were involved in. I told him, "Caring is not an advantage." He told me then about how Irene Adler had sent the phone to him.

You may wonder why I did not simply ask Sherlock for the phone. This is because you did not grow up with him. If Sherlock knew that I wanted it, he would go to great lengths to keep it from me. Childish I know, but that is what he would do. Instead I let slip to my associates where the phone was located. I expected that they would do no permanent damage to my brother. I did not expect that he would do damage to them.

In the end, we were outplayed. Irene tricked Sherlock into decoding the message, and Moriarty texted me to tell me that he had won this round. Coventry was revealed and months and years of work were worthless.

At first, I was shattered. Then I was furious with Sherlock. How is it that my little brother is always able to destroy my plans? Even when we were little he would knock over card towers that it had taken me hours to build, or waddle into the room and knock down my dominoes just before I had a chance to finish what I was making.

Then I thought of John. He was supposed to watch Sherlock. To keep Irene Adler from getting to him. He had failed me, and I began to wonder. Could it be that John was in league with Moriarty? It was not outside the realm of possibility, and if he was, what a stunning blow it would be.

John had total access to my brother, and occasional access to me. He seemed so innocuous, yet he was also so seductive with his calming voice and his charming manner. Those thin pink lips smiling at me during dinner. Telling jokes that made me laugh. Looking at me with those understanding eyes.

I found myself unable to go to sleep so I got on the computer, yes I do occasionally use them, and I looked at John's blog about the incident at the pool. John wrote. "The voice in my ear, which I vaguely recognised, told me to say some stuff - which, I realised, gave the impression that I was behind it all."

That was impossible. John was insignificant, a pawn. Wasn't he? That night, I had a dream.

The door opened silently. It was John Watson in the same ugly brown suit and striped tie. I was at my desk, but my chair was turned to face the portrait of Her Majesty, so I did not see him approach. He walked toward me slowly and silently his brows pinched in repressed anger as they had been the first time we met at the warehouse. He walked heel toe, heel toe toward my chair. I was asleep. Then John placed his hand on my shoulder and slowly slid it down my chest and under my waistcoat. His other hand gently held my chin. He rolled my head back to expose my naked neck and then bent over me. Suddenly there was a flash of silver as a knife came from his sleeve. He ran it across my throat, and I awoke. I was alone in bed.  


**F. Contact**

I value my intuition, and I don't take threats lightly. It may have only been a dream, but it rattled me, so I decided to take action. The next day Dr. John Hamish Watson was subjected the most severe security screening that could be given to anyone short of the investigation given to a potential head of state. We ran cross-checks comparing his location to known locations of Moriarty's associates. We interviewed friends and relations. We checked everything that might reveal whether he had been compromised. John passed with flying colors.

I read the interviews:

"John was a good boy and an excellent student."

"He has a great personality. The ladies love him."

"He's a good man to have at your back in a dangerous situation."

"He saved my arm."

"He saved my life. How is he?"

Page after page confirmed it. Dr. John Watson was exactly who he said he was.

Even during the investigation, I continued to meet with John to talk about Sherlock. Usually I would send the car to pick him up. I didn't call him because I did not want to leave evidence for Sherlock to find.

At work, after Sherlock had unlocked Irene Adler's phone, we spent a great deal of time analyzing each piece of data for its possible strategic significance.

"And this one?" I asked. Pointing to a sketch.

Agnes leaned over the desk brushing back a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair "We think that this is the inside of the American Embassy in Pakistan. It shows the location of a secret room where the names of certain operatives are kept." she said.

"I see. Transfer this information to MI6. Now about the missile plans..."

The intercom buzzed. "Sir."

"Yes Phillipa?" I replied.

"We have a Dr. Watson to see you."

"Show him in please. Agnes, we will continue this later."

"Yes Mr. Holmes." Agnes replied nodding as she rose and walked toward the door.

John Watson entered the office in a striped shirt and black coat with no tie. He turned toward Agnes holding up a hand to get her attention. "Anthea isn't it?" He said "Remember me?"

"Pardon?" Agnes said standing tall in a way that thrust out her ample chest.

"We've met before?" He answered.

She raised her chin in an expression of extreme detachment. "Have we?" She asked.

"Okay!" He said sheepishly nodding his head as she walked past him out of the office.

I stood. "So, John to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" I asked while picking up the files and placing them into a locked filing cabinet.

John walked further into the room, hands in his pockets. "I got off work a bit early," He said, "and since it's about the time for another one of our meetings, I figured I'd come over and save you the trouble of sending a car."

"You came straight from work?" I asked, "Don't you think that Sherlock might notice?"

"He's not here." John replied running his hands across the back of the chair.

"Then, where is Sherlock?" I asked. Walking around the desk to stand beside him.

"France." John said.

"France?" I replied raising my eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes, he's on a wine tour." John said, "A wine stain tour really. He's writing another monograph. Tobacco ash wasn't enough for him."

"I see, " I said smiling, "and you didn't go with him?"

John laughed, "And have him insult me for not knowing the difference between a stain from a 1979 Burgundy and a 1804 port? No." John shook his head.

"Well, if Sherlock isn't here, then why..."

"Why am I here? Actually I do have an ulterior motive." John said with a twinkle in his eye. "You see, my stove has burned out and Mrs. Hudson is having it repaired so I haven't had decent cup of tea for a few days. And I thought, good old Mycroft will know where to go to get a cuppa, so how bout it? I'll even be 'mother' this time."

I think that my mouth actually fell open when I heard him say this. I did not remember anyone ever asking "old Mycroft" to "have a cuppa" before.

"You're not busy are you?" He asked apologetically.

"No. No. I was just about to take my luncheon." I walked over to the door and opened it. I leaned out to see Phillipa talking with Agnes. She looked up. "Phillipa, would you please call the car around and make a reservation for two at the Royal Garden for tea."

"Sir?" She asked surprised, then recovering she nodded curtly, "Yes sir." she said picking up the phone.

I walked back into the room, my hand still on the door handle and turned to see John standing before me a large grin on his face. He grabbed my arm affectionately, "Thanks Mycroft." He said before brushing past me out of the door. He rubbed his hands together and laughed as he strode through the outer office leaving me to follow in his wake.

We had a very pleasant tea, the two of us, sitting at a table overlooking the gardens. Soft music drifted through the air as sunlight refracted through my crystal water glass making patterns on the table. John took my tea cup and poured just as he said he would, adding sugar and milk and passing it back to me with a smile.

"Thank You." I said taking the cup and saucer.

"Don't mention it." He said pouring some for himself without sugar. "It's a pleasure to go out with someone who eats for a change." I laughed.

John took a sip of tea and turned his head to look out of the window. I took a moment to simply look at him. John's button down collar bent a bit as if he had worn the shirt for more than a day. His protruding ears were not at all covered by his recently trimmed hair. His pale eyelashes were quite long and there was a small nick on his chin where he had cut himself shaving this morning. John seemed quite comfortable.

Mostly we talked about Sherlock. John saw a side of Sherlock that I had never seen. To John, Sherlock was a passionate man, a sensitive man. John told me how he loved jam on toast in the morning, and how he appreciated a good joke. That he thought the stars were beautiful, although he knew virtually nothing about them. That he still played board games at his age.

I found myself just listening to John talk. I placed my chin on my clasped hands and closed my eyes. His voice when he talked of Sherlock was gentle, exuberant, and a little sarcastic. He made me smile.

John was Sherlock's friend. In many ways, John was more like a brother to Sherlock than I was. Brother, Frater, Friend. From the old English 'frēond' meaning a close associate, relative or lover. Listening to John talk about the two of them, I wondered whether it would ever be worth it to have a friend.

.._.._

To be a Holmes is to eschew feeling. To place duty before desire. It has always been so. Sherlock was a rebel. He let himself feel joy and pain. He let himself care for others. Caring was his weakness. It always had been. I knew that he cared for Irene Adler. It was in his every act, his every word. So when the report came across my desk some months later saying that Irene Adler was dead, I knew that something had to be done.

I had a false report manufactured that said she was alive in America. I was going to send it to Sherlock. Then I decided to send it to John. Then I was going to send a car for John. In the end, I decided to take the file to John myself.

That was how I came to be waiting in the rain outside of "Speedy's sandwich bar and cafe". John was late, and I found myself anxious. I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves. I saw him come around the corner wearing a green coat without an umbrella. We went inside, and I ordered us coffee.

I told John the fiction that I had devised to tell Sherlock. At first he did not see why it mattered.

"He despised her at in the end." He said. "Won't even mention her by name just The Woman."

"Is that loathing, or a salute?" I said, "One of a kind the One Woman who matters."

"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way. I don't think." John replied.

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher yet he elects to be a detective, what might we deduce about his heart?"

"I don't know?" John said.

"Neither do I," I replied, "but initially he wanted to be a pirate."

I let John decide what to tell Sherlock. He left to go upstairs while I waited in the cafe for him to return with the file. I sipped my mediocre cup wondering why I was here. It was certainly unusual to find myself in such a place. I rested my chin on my clasped hands and looked around watching the common people going about their normal lives.

Why was I waiting here? I hadn't come to see Sherlock, and it certainly wasn't for the food. I was forced to admit that I had come primarily to see John. I had to admit to the possibility that I might have begun to care about him. I had already shown how I valued his opinion in matters concerning Sherlock. I had let him decide what to say. Normally I am so very decisive, but now I waited to see what John would do. It was unlike me. I ordered another coffee.

John returned the file minus the phone.

"I'm sorry," he said. "He took the phone."

"No matter." I replied, "We've already retrieved all of the data."

"I didn't tell him about Irene Adler." John said, "But I think he knew anyway. He said that she texted him to say goodbye."

"Do you think that he'll be alright?" I asked.

"I'm not sure." He said.

"Do you think... that you might meet me next week to tell me how Sherlock is getting along?" I asked. I found that my pulse had increased. I sat watching him over my clasped hands as if I were praying or begging.

"Probably...Yeah, I can do that. Well, I better go now." He said rising and walking away.

I nodded but remained sitting. My heart was beating so hard, I was sure that he could hear it. I felt, hopeful, light-hearted. Despite the fact that I was in a public place, I put my head in my hands. Then I thought, "What would my Father think?" and I rose and left for home.

That night I had another dream.

The door to my office opened silently. It was John Watson. I was facing the portrait of Her Majesty, so I did not see him approach. He walked toward me slowly. Walking heel toe, heel toe as he approached my chair. John placed his hand on my shoulder and slowly slid it down my chest and over my waistcoat. He pulled me toward him so that my back was against his chest. His other hand gently held my chin. He rolled my head back to rest on his shoulder as he bent over my chair wrapping me in his arms. His head resting on my naked neck. He rocked me back and forth wrapping me in warmth and comfort. I crossed my arms over his, and caressed his hair with my fingertips. I closed my eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning I woke with the sun, relaxed, refreshed, and smiling as I had not done since I was a very small child.  


**G. Enemy**

The moves in the game are deadly serious. One skirmish precipitates another. What we do in back rooms and board rooms has repercussions throughout the world. One false move can result in the collapse of an institution, or the loss of a fortune, or the loss of a life.

I anticipated my meeting with John all week. I bought a new tie. I thought of five different restaurants where we could meet, finally resolving on one that served Chinese food, because I had heard that he liked that. But on the morning of the meeting, intelligence reported that James Moriarty had been captured. I canceled the appointment.

Therefore, I was nowhere near pleased when I went down into the interrogation block and looked through the one-way glass to see James Moriarty smirking there.

Dr. Gustav M. Berliner was a cryptographer and computer scientist. He had lived in East Germany before the fall of the Berlin wall. He moved to China and lived there for many years. Two weeks before he had returned to Germany to attend the funeral of his daughter, but he never arrived there. Moriarty had abducted him.

Before his capture, Dr. Berliner was rumored to be working on a universal key code that could open any door or lock. We had planned to detain him ourselves, but Moriarty had got to him first.

An interrogator entered the cell "Where is Dr. Berliner?" he asked.

Moriarty said nothing.

"Where have you taken him?" Moriarty only smiled.

"We have been polite up until now, but if you do not answer our questions, we can use methods that are not so ...civil."

Moriarty frowned looking down at the man with a dark expression. "Try," he said.

We were on a time table. By law we had to release Moriarty in two weeks if he had not been charged. Our agents were looking everywhere while the interrogation proceeded. I spent a good part of each day watching as it progressed, or failed to progress. Moriarty had not uttered another word.

One evening while I was meditating on the problem at the Diogenes club, I got a text that someone had used my identification at a military base in Baskerville. It was my little brother on one of his escapades again.

I texted him [What are you doing? M]

I waited and then texted again.

[What's going on Sherlock? M]

Sherlock did not bother to reply, so I denied the authorization and called Gregory Lestrade of Scotland yard. He was an associate of Sherlock who I had strings to manipulate.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Do you know who this is?"

"Ah! Mycroft Holmes," he said.

"Yes. I believe that you are overworked, it may be time for you to take a vacation."

"But I just got back from vacation!"

"Then you will take another one to Baskerville, tomorrow. Find out what Sherlock is doing. Your supervisor will be advised of your absence."

"Hey, I can't just..." I hung up.

The next moment an urgent alert came in. I walked into the office and made a call.

"Mr Holmes," said the agent, "he's asking for you...by name."

I went down into the cells and looked through the one-way glass. Moriarty was yelling and waving his hands. "Holmes! I want Mycroft Holmes! Get Mycroft PLEEEAASSEE!"

He sounded demented. He sounded mad. I took a moment to straighten my tie and dust off my jacket, and then I walked into the cell with James Moriarty.

We stared at each other. The guard stood on the side making sure that Moriarty did not touch me.

"Hi Mycroft," He said, "So good to finally meet you at last."

"You wanted something?" I asked.

"You can't keep me in here you know," he said. " I have associates ready to shake down the walls of this place. Unlawful detention. OH! The injustice!" he said waving his hands.

"You are referring. I suppose, to your associates in Covent Garden. They have been … neutralized I'm afraid."

Moriarty pursed his lips for a second, and then he widened his eyes and said in a sing song voice, "Oh well, can't be helped!"

"Where is Dr. Berliner? You know of course."

"Of course," he said, "But you should know that you can't get anything for free these days. You'll have to trade for it." He nodded his head.

"Trade what?"

"Oh you'll love this," he said smiling, "I won't ask for any of those government secrets that you think are so important. They're not secrets to me anyway. Boring. What I want to know is totally insignificant."

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

"That's right Mycroft. Always working for your government. It's so important isn't it, but how important? That's what I want to know."

"My patience is wearing thin."

"Tell me about Sherlock."

"What?" I asked surprised.

"I want to know about Sherlock. What he was like as a child?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm a FAN!" he said.

I watched James Moriarty. His face was covered with the beginning of a mustache. His prison-issued clothes were loose on his thin frame, but his eyes did not look beaten. He looked powerful, exultant.

"Where is Dr. Berliner?" I asked.

"In Berlin where else would a Berliner be?" Moriarty quipped.

"The address?"

"My turn. What was Sherlock's favorite fairy tale as a child?"

"What? How can this possibly ..."

"That's my price. SEE it's so easy! What are you going to chose? Will you stand before all these fine gentlemen and ladies and say that your brother's reading preferences as a child take precedence over the safety of this nation? I'm asking so little. It's just for my own ...amusement. Tell me and I'll give you the address."

Moriarty was the most dangerous criminal that the world had ever seen, and now he was asking me about my brother's childhood preferences. I could not understand why it was important, but I knew that it was a direct attack against me.

I had a decided lack of weaknesses. I had cultivated this quality for just this reason, and now he was attacking one of them. But he was correct. The books that Sherlock liked as a child were nothing against the safety of this nation, and I could not see how this information could ever be used against him.

"Hansel and Gretel." I said, "That was his favorite fairy tale."

"Excellent!" Moriarty said. "Two little children, abandoned in the woods kidnapped by a wicked witch. A crime story. Yes! Yes! I like it."

"The location of Dr Berliner."

"The Edelweiss apartments, room fifteen."

I immediately turned and left the cell. "Contact the BND. Have them search that address and report to me at once."

That night I got the report from Berlin. Dr. Berliner was indeed in the room as Moriarty said. He was in the freezer, dead.

The next few days were grueling. We would start by denying him sleep. Then the traditional interrogation. Then my turn with him followed by his meal.

I had delegated many of my smaller tasks, but some I could not avoid. I found myself going from work, to the cells to home with no break. It was grueling to me as well. We had just retrieved Dr. Berliner's papers. They were in German, which I could read, but the mathematics were unfamiliar to me. I could learn it, but I didn't have the time. I had just decided to send it to our decryption team when there was a visitor at the door.

Wendell, our old butler, showed in Dr. John Watson. I was not dressed to receive visitors. I was not even wearing my waistcoat, but John didn't seem to notice.

"Hello Mycroft," he said, "So this is where you live. It's pretty impressive. Do you live all by yourself?"

"Yes. The butler has an adjoining apartment, but the other servants go home at night."

"Amazing! Feudalism lives," John said looking around the sitting room.

"So John, what can I do for you? Why are you here?"

"Ah, no reason. I just wanted to give you this." John handed me a foil bag. I reached inside and pulled out a small dog toy.

He reached out touching the base of my hand as he pushed the dog's head making it bob up and down. "You put it on the counter, and its little head goes up and down. You see?"

"Ah?" I said confused and distracted by John's touch.

"It's a souvenir. I told Sherlock that it was a requirement when on a trip to buy souvenirs for your relatives."

"Is it now?" I said, "Thank you." And I set the dog toy on the mantle next to a seventeenth-century china tea cup. "I've never gotten a souvenir before."

"You haven't? I figured your parents would have given them to you all the time, whenever they returned from business trips and such."

"My father rarely left London," I said. "Please come into the dining room. I'll have Wendall set another place for dinner."

"Oh no, I didn't mean to impose. I just came to drop this off."

"Please," I said, "I'm eating alone."

John stopped and looked at me. He took in the empty house, the chairs that no one ever sat in. The rooms kept like a museum and said, "Actually, I am a bit hungry, if it wouldn't be an imposition..."

I smiled and called Wendell.

That night, I had another blissful sleep.

The next morning when I went to see Moriarty he narrowed his eyes."Something's changed," he said.

"Let us go back to the keycode. Where can I find it?" I started.

"Oooh! I see it now!" he said excitedly. "Your eyes aren't red, and are those laugh lines? Who's been thawing the iceman? Who do you care for if not your little brother?

I put on my most impassive face. I could see that I had made a dangerous mistake. I realized then that this entire interrogation was about me. I had thought that we had captured Moriarty. He had let himself be captured, let himself be detained because he wanted to get to me, personally.

He knew my weakness, and he was pumping me for information. Whereas I had not gotten anything of significance from him that would help us discover the computer key code. It was locked up in that devilish mind of his. The mind that was planning even now how to drive a knife into my gut and twist it.

I nodded to Moriarty "Nicely played." I said and turned and left the room.

I grabbed the arm of my principal interrogator. "Take off the gloves." I told him. "We need that key code now."

I walked outside and smoked a half a pack of cigarettes. I knew I was being watched. I couldn't visit John again or he would be in danger. I got into the car and drove to work racing against time to see how many problems I could solve before Moriarty was released to begin his attack on me.

The time allowed for our detention ended, and Moriarty was released. He had covered the room with Sherlock's name scratched with his fingernails, written with his sweat. Drawn with his hair. Moriarty was obsessed, and we had gained nothing.

"Alright let him go." I said and they opened the door releasing this dangerous criminal back onto the streets.

He sauntered out slowly. As he passed he turned and whispered, "You'll be hearing from me, Mycroft."

He had written Sherlock's name backwards on the one-way glass to make sure that I knew who his target was. The next turn was going to be devastating. The next turn, would be the destruction of Sherlock Holmes.  


**H. Her Majesty**

The first thing that I did was raise the surveillance status on my brother. I spent a part of each day reading his report, and John's. Moriarty had decided to take his time. He wanted me to stew in my own juices. Unfortunately his plan was working.

I began to receive queries from other nations about the universal key code. Did it exist? Had we recovered it? Did we know where it could be found? I gave a blanket order that all requests for information were to be refused. "We are not at liberty to say at this time," was our official response.

But the subject came up at the Queen's Tea, an annual event where certain high level officials and civil servants meet at the palace.

"So there Holmes, what about this key code I've been hearing of, is it truly able to open up our accounts for all to see? Tell us man, do we have it?"

"We are not at liberty to say at this time," I replied.

"Oh come now Holmes. I'm not some foreign ambassador. What's the real story?"

"Ah, " I said, "The 'real story' is no, we do not have it, but we are pursuing it at this time. What we do know for sure is that no one else has the code."

"Well, that's all that really matters isn't it," he said and he actually patted me on the back before going off to get a drink of something stronger than tea.

I noticed a disturbance and turned to see that Her Majesty was approaching. I was gratified to see that she came straight toward me. I bowed low.

"Mycroft Holmes. No need to be so formal, we are old friends." She held out her hand.

"Thank You, Your Majesty," I replied gently touching hers.

"I notice that you are wearing a ring," she said, "are you … Have you finally decided to get married?"

"Oh no Ma'am. It's simply a ring. I am not married."

"Pity." She said, "If you would be so kind, do you think that you can stay afterward so that we might have a little chat?"

"I would be most honored, Ma'am. Thank You." I said bowing again as she turned to leave.

After the banquet, I was shown into a private drawing room. Her majesty sat in a Queen Anne style chair upholstered in a white Jacquard print. She had beside her some photo albums which she put away when I entered.

"Mycroft. Please have a seat."

"Your Majesty." I said bowing before I sat.

"So good of you to come and talk with me. Have you been in good health?"

"Yes, I am doing well. Thank you for asking, and Yourself?"

"Oh a bit of a cold last week, but I feel much better now."

I leaned forward concerned. Her majesty laughed.

"Oh it was nothing. Don't look so concerned. I will be around for quite a few more years now."

"I certainly hope so. Your example is an constant inspiration to me in my work."

"And your work is a great benefit to this country, Mycroft," she said.

"You honor me too much, Ma'am."

"I think not. I knew your father and his father before him. We have always been able to rely on name of Holmes."

"Thank you, Ma'am, I live only to serve."

"And that is why I have asked you here today, Mycroft."

"Pardon me? I don't understand."

"Please excuse my impertinence for talking of a personal matter, but at my age I don't like to put off things that I have on my mind."

"I am always pleased to hear anything you would have to say, Ma'am."

"There have been many men who have served this great nation. They have given their minds, their hearts, and even their lives for it. For some, it becomes their entire life. I have learned how to recognize it in a man. I recognize that same devotion in you."

"Thank you, Maam."

"It was not a compliment, I'm afraid. A nation is simply a concept. It represents people. You should never put the idea of a country before the people it serves.

"I have served this great nation to the best of my ability, and I will continue to serve it until my death, even so, I feel a greater loyalty to my family, and all of those whom I love.

"Mycroft, don't set aside love. Don't put the concept of a nation above those whom you love. I have become accustomed to always having a Holmes to rely on. I hope that I can continue to rely on having one in the future."

"Ma'am, I... I don't know what to say."

"That's quite alright. Would you like to see some pictures of my grandchildren?" She asked and pulled the album off of the table and onto her lap.

"Yes, I would. Thank You Ma'am."

That evening I went to visit Sherlock. He asked me why I was there. When I said that I had come simply to visit, he asked if I had lost my job. John gave me a cup of tea in a coffee mug. Despite the fact that my brother continued to be his annoying self, I had a good time. I looked at Sherlock over the top of the mug and wondered what Moriarty was planning.

"You look thoughtful," Sherlock said.

"Simply matters of state concerning me," I replied.

"High level matters it would appear. Is that a gold tie pin?"

"Yes, I had tea with Her Majesty."

"I had tea at the palace. I suppose my tea suffers from comparison," John said.

I looked at him and smiled. "This tea has a certain...comforting quality in itself."

John chuckled, " I'll take that as a compliment."

Sherlock turned toward me examining me with narrowed eyes. "Mycroft. Are you fatally ill?"

I laughed. "Do not worry, I am in perfect health."

"How's your work?"

"Fine!" I said, "but now that you mention it, I should be getting back to it."

"Mycroft, why don't you stay for dinner," John said, "It's not tea at the palace, but I can order takeout, and I owe you one."

"You owe Mycroft dinner?" Sherlock said surprised, "Why?"

"No thank you. I should be going now." I said dialing for the driver to come around. As I stood at the door of Sherlock's flat, I looked up and down the street. Somewhere here, Moriarty's men were waiting.

From that window, a sniper could shoot down Sherlock and there would be nothing that I could do about it. My only consolation was that I knew that Moriarty was too dramatic to simply have someone killed. This would be extravagant. This would be theatre. Even so, I should take a look at the locations of all assassins and snipers in the London area. I'd call intelligence first thing the next morning. I got into the car and drove away.

That night, I had another dream.

I was walking through my house. Suddenly, I found myself in a deserted street. The walls on either side of me were filled with cubbyholes. On top of one wall stood Agnes dressed as the Greek goddess Hera. She texted me. The message on my phone read [watch out!] .

I turned to see a man coming toward me. Sherlock stepped out, and began to fight him. The man put his arms around Sherlock's neck. Then I saw John standing beside me. He aimed his gun and shot the man.

I stared at John who reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. Then Sherlock came over. He wrapped his arm around John's waist and they walked away together.

I noticed that at the place where John had touched me, my clothes glowed red and then turned to ash. It spread across my body until all of my clothes had burned away so that I stood in the street naked. The only thing that I had left was my pocket watch. I opened it, but it had no hands.  


**I. Collapse**

A great country rests on great institutions. Great Britain especially depends upon its institutions for its very identity. If our institutions fall, then Britain falls. The computer key code was a threat to our institutions, and we spent a great deal of effort to find it. I must admit, however, that I also spent a great deal of time keeping watch on my little brother.

I opened the report on Sherlock that my team had assembled. Sherlock had become a minor celebrity. I read the newspaper articles about him with a mixture of pride and trepidation. On the one hand, it was gratifying that my brother was being appreciated for his genius. On the other hand, this was looking more and more like theatre to me. To create a great fall one must first be raised up. I remembered the old children's tale.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men.

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

But who was Humpty Dumpty? Was it Sherlock or me?

I opened the second file. It was a list of secret operatives known to be in Britain. The list kept getting longer and longer. The key code was a hot item. No one knew where it was, but everyone suspected that it was in Britain. German contacts had reported a similar rush of agents everywhere that Dr. Berliner had been. In China, all of Berliner's papers and possessions had been seized by the government and were out of reach.

I frowned. Something that I was doing more and more of these days. Then I looked at the papers and smiled. John was there, faithful John. The distance between them had shrunk to three inches. It was a great comfort to me to know that he was staying so close to Sherlock. Perhaps he could protect him.

Then I looked back at the list of killers, and frowned once more. I wanted to see John. To have dinner again, but it was better if he stayed with Sherlock. They must know that Moriarty was after them. Moriarty was not the type to keep such a thing secret.

Then the day that I was dreading arrived. On one day, in the same hour, Moriarty attacked The Bank of England, The Tower of London, and Pentonville Prison. He had the key code. None of our great institutions were safe. Moriarty was in prison. We could not touch him, but neither could anyone else. I sent a message to the warden to make sure that he was placed in isolation in an old fashioned cell with a keyed lock.

I watched the film of Moriarty in the tower and felt cold. "Get Sherlock" he had written. Perhaps it would be better if Moriarty were never to leave the prison. It used to be the norm in the tower that those who entered did not leave alive. A slow smile spread across my face as I thought of it, but I knew that it couldn't be that simple. Moriarty would have thought of such an easy solution. He would have made lists of contingencies. Things that would happen if he died.

Sherlock's immediate death was the most likely result. My death was probably also on the list, but only after Sherlock's. Of this I was certain.

I followed the trial very closely. I read of Sherlock's banning from the courtroom and rolled my eyes. It was indeed a full-time occupation to apologize for all of his mistakes. Moriarty's release did not surprise me, but it was disappointing.

There is a form that we have. It is not spoken of, and I remind you that you must never repeat what I say. It is called a 'vanishing request'. A form that when signed by three names from a very short list of officials will result in the permanent removal of a certain troublesome person. I must tell you that I kept such a form in my desk at this time and often pulled it out to look at it.

Surveillance reports said that a large number of the foreign killers that we were tracking had now located themselves near my brother's home. I could wait no longer, I had to tell Sherlock. But I knew that Sherlock would find out about my mistake. How I had let Moriarty trick me. I was too proud to let my brother see my weakness. In retrospect, I realize that had I told him... perhaps he could have discovered what was happening sooner. Stopped it somehow. But I was a fool.

Instead, I called John to a meeting at the Diogenes club. I had to tell him about Sherlock's peril. Maybe somehow he could protect him where I could not. You see I trusted John Watson. I had become dependent on him. I believed that if he were beside Sherlock, then he could not be killed.

I showed John the files of the killers living near Sherlock.

"It's not hard to guess the common denominator is it?" I said.

"You think this is Moriarty?" John replied.

"He promised Sherlock he'd come back."

"If this was Moriarty we'd be dead already."

"If not Moriarty, then who?"

John asked me why I did not tell Sherlock directly. How could I say that I was afraid of what he would think of me? That I was afraid of what John would think of me, if they knew how easily I had been deceived?

I had lectured Sherlock during the Irene Adler case. I told him how a person could be lured into solving a puzzle for someone else. Now Moriarty had done it to me. In order to discover the key code, I had let slip information about Sherlock that Moriarty was sure to use to destroy him. I couldn't face my brother, and I couldn't tell John. I valued his good opinion too much.

Instead I said. "Too much history between us, John. Old scores, resentments."

John scoffed at my fears, "Nicked all his smurfs? Broke his action man?"

He put down the files and laughed. "Finished," he said as he rose to leave.

John did not understand the seriousness of the situation. I had to make him understand. I said, "We both know what's coming, John. Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival."

"So you want me to watch out for your brother, because he won't accept your help?"

"If it's not too much trouble," I replied.

John considered it for a moment, then he left discounting my warning. I felt powerless. I was certain that Moriarty's move had been made, and I had done everything that I could, but it was not enough.  


**J. The End**

Good and Evil were never concepts that had much meaning to me. I did what I did for the British government and I did not think of any good other than its continued existence and success. But Good and Evil had meaning to John Watson. To him, Moriarty would be considered evil. But would I be considered good? Somehow, I don't believe that I would.

That night, I got a call. Sherlock was to be arrested, but he had threatened a police commissioner with a gun before running off taking John as his hostage. The final move had been played. I went to the office, and put out a call for any information on the location of Sherlock, John, and the foreign killers known to be in the area.

I was told that two of the killers had been assassinated on the streets of London by an expert using a high-powered rifle. The data suggested a very particular assassin, Sebastian Moran, the best marksman in Great Britain. He was last known to be working for James Moriarty.

I bit my fingernails. The streets were crawling with police, CID, and foreign agents, all searching for Sherlock. I knew that they wouldn't find him in time. I checked my phone often waiting for his call.

I tried to work, but after reading the same line for the fifth time I realized that I would get no further work done, so I left and went to the Diogenes club. I walked into the lounge to find John waiting there for me. He sat legs crossed in a large leather chair waving some papers in his hand.

"She has really done her homework, Mrs. Reilly, with things that only someone close to Sherlock could know." He said looking over his shoulder at me.

"Ah" I said hesitating in the doorway. Of course John would find out. I should have expected this. I closed the door.

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately," John said. The forced calmness of his voice contrasting with his wrinkled brow. "two names, yours and mine and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."

"John..." I tried to explain, but I could not find the words.

John's voice had an edge of panic. His mock friendly tone not quite masking the anger and fear which bled out of his shadowed eyes and tense mouth. "So, how does it work then your … relationship? You go out for a coffee now and then eh? You and Jim. Your own brother and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

I sat still in my chair. A deer caught in headlights. " I never inten...I never dreamt..."

"This, you see this, " He stuttered, "is what you were trying to tell me isn't it? Watch his back because I've made a mistake." I had often wished, in the days since Moriarty's release, to spend some time face to face with John, but now I found it difficult to meet his gaze.

He slammed the papers down on the table, then sitting back in the leather chair, he blew out a breath. John looked up at me then as if this were an entirely sensible conversation, not the crucifixion that I knew it to be." How'd you meet him?" he asked.

"People like him, we know about them, we watch them. James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket the ultimate weapon, the key code, a few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

John glanced up in thought. "And you, abducted him to try and find the key code?"

"Interrogated him for weeks," I replied.

"and..."

"He wouldn't play along. He just sat there. Staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up." I gestured to my chest. " I could get him to talk just a little, but …"

"In return you had to offer him Sherlock's life story. So it's one big lie, 'Sherlock's a fraud', but people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." John put his finger to his lips, then he leaned toward me. He lowered his voice, but each word that he said rings clear in my memory. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and you have given him the perfect ammunition." John said giving me a little grin that was anything but happy. I swallowed.

At that moment, I knew that something between us had broken that could never be repaired. I had failed him. Protecting Sherlock was the one thing that kept the two of us together. I had shown that I couldn't be trusted to perform that simple task. He rose from his chair and turned to go.

I called out his name, "John." He looked back at me, and I shuddered to see the disappointment in his eyes." I'm sorry," I said. But he shook his head laughing that hollow laughter.

"Tell him would you?" I begged, but he had already walked away. His footsteps echoing as he stormed out of the room and out of my life forever.

The next day I received a call from Scotland yard. Sherlock was dead. I asked if I needed to identify the body, but they said that someone else, Molly Hooper, had already done so. I told them that I would make arrangements to take custody of the body and plan a burial.

I went home and tried to sleep. I stared at the bouncing head of the dog toy beside my bed until I felt tired, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the same image replaying itself in my head.

I remembered a curly-haired boy tears pouring down his face as he stood beside our mother's casket. I was not crying. Because I was older, I tried to look dignified. My father came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. A gesture that was very uncharacteristic of him. He said to me, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft."

The next morning Sherlock's face was all over the papers. They called him a fake detective. Said that Moriarty was really an actor. It made no sense, but then... people believe what they want to believe. People believe what they are told.

Moriarty had also committed suicide. Wiping all of my pieces off of the board with his death. His one final blow against me. I had lost everything.

But it isn't losing that has broken me. My problem is that I have fallen for the one weakness that I warned Sherlock so strongly about. The weakness of caring.

You think that I am shattered because of my brother's death. You think the guilt of my role in his death has disturbed me so that I can no longer work. The truth is that I don't regret the choices I made. My only regret on that score is that I was tricked into giving something for nothing, that I lost the game.

Sherlock knew the way the world worked. He could have been a player, but he chose not to, and therefore he was a pawn. Moriarty maneuvered him into a corner and he died. I greatly regret his death, but that is all part of the game. Sherlock understood it as well as I.

No, it isn't Sherlock's death that has broken me. That has made it almost impossible for me to do my work. The reason that I find myself depressed and unable to go on. The reason that I sit in my office immobile staring at the door, is because I know that no matter what I do, no matter how long I wait, John won't be coming through that door again. He'll never again drop by for a 'cuppa', or phone me up to tell me about his day. He won't smile when I come into the room, or look at me with eyes full of compassion and acceptance. John will never trust me again, perhaps never even talk to me again, because I killed Sherlock.

I don't know what is right or wrong anymore, and for the most part, I just don't care. I feel... No. I can't say what I feel. It is not the custom of Holmes men to confess their feelings to anyone. Not even to the one they love.

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE – Why Mycroft?
> 
> This story was inspired by the wonderful portrayal of Mycroft by Mark Gatiss in the BBC production of Sherlock.
> 
> Everyone notices the relationship of John and Sherlock. It is a major point in the show, but the more that I watched, the more I became enamored with Mycroft and John's relationship. They start out as adversaries and pass quickly through several stages, some on screen and some off until we see them having intimate coffee conversations together. This from a man who Conan Doyle describes as so fixed in his habits that he rarely goes anywhere other than work, home, and the Diogenes club.
> 
> And although Mycroft can be rude to Mrs Hudson, and he is downright withering to Sherlock, he is always pleasant to John and never has a bad word to say to him. Dr. John Watson is a man who understands concepts such as sacrifice and 'national importance'. A man whose sarcastic wit is similar to Mycroft's own, though less bitter.
> 
> What does Mycroft think of John? Mycroft named his club after Diogenes the cynic who walked through the city streets with a lamp in the daytime saying that he was searching for an honest man. In John, he has found that man. Can he help but be impressed? He must feel wonder, fascination, attraction, things that can be inferred by his amused smiles at John in The Great Game, or his waiting around to have coffee with John at the end of Scandal in Belgravia. We can see it in how he leans against his desk, and how he stares at John over hands clasped in supplication.
> 
> In most people's mind, the tragic rooftop scene between Sherlock and John overshadows the much quieter parting of Mycroft and John in the Diogenes club. A meeting that John initiated simply to confirm his fears that it was Mycroft who betrayed his brother. And for the first time, we see real remorse in Mycroft as he stutters and begs forgiveness from John.
> 
> It seems to me that Mycroft is not more normal than Sherlock, he is just better at pretending to be normal. And having met him, we can ask "How many friends do you suppose he has?" Of course he has acquaintances, but who would drop by his house to cheer him up when he is down, or ask him to go out drinking? How many close friends can you have when your motto is "Caring is not an advantage"?
> 
> I wanted to explore the effect that a warm, pleasant personality like John's would have on the ice man. For someone who has seen so little genuine affection, John's mildest attentions must burn in his heart like fire.
> 
> I want to thank all of my readers, especially you who have commented on my work. I wrote this work at fanfiction.net and benefited from the comments that I received there.
> 
> I'd like to thank my excellent beta xxignoredxx who helped me rewrite the choppy, disorganized opening that I started with. Thanks for everything, and for putting up with my annoying bossiness. It really helped to have another set of eyes. And while I'm at it, I should thank FlyingPigMonkey for recommending her.
> 
> I'd also like to thank Moony3403 for translating this story into [Russian](http://ficbook.net/readfic/359429), and I want to apologize for totally rewriting some of the chapters that you had already translated. SORRY!
> 
> Anyway, I'm really enjoying the welcoming community here and I hope to be able to post for years to come.
> 
> CHEERS!
> 
> Aless Nox


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